


The Albatross

by KestrelShrike



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ABELLAN, Abelas x Lavellan, Babelas - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Romance, Slow Burn, The Wanderer, dem thighs, the albatross
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:47:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3689385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KestrelShrike/pseuds/KestrelShrike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first chapter in what I hope to be a long series exploring what Abelas does after the Temple of Mythal. While I'm sure I'll eventually throw a love interest in there (I know myself too well), the primary focus will remain on his thoughts and motivations, how he experiences a Thedas so utterly changed from everything he knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Leaving

Freedom. What a strange concept. He had resided in this temple for centuries, for years past counting. Any memories he had of before were corrupted, mere fragments that slipped between his fingers as he tried to grasp them. There was the pain of receiving his vallaslin, coupled with the deep honor he felt for being selected in Mythal’s name. Mostly, there were these halls, echoing with voices long gone. The dead followed his every step.  


The Well was gone now, corrupted. Its knowledge had gone into a shem, and with it went his purpose. What was left to him now? He had never before seen dust in the Temple of Mythal, but now it coated everything, a fine layer that was disturbed with each footstep he made. His companions were no help- half had already returned to a deep sleep, hoping that when they woke again, a purpose would have appeared in their life. It was not something Abelas could bring himself to do. The sheer inaction would destroy him.   


That was how he found himself here, standing in the doorway. Hesitance, briefly, and then the smallest shake of his head. It was a feeling foreign to him. All his training had led to sure decisions, a certain moral conviction that every action he took was the correct one. His world had been flipped today. A human had taken from the well, relieved him of his sacred duty. That the human answered to a Dalish elf, that the human called her ‘Inquisitor’ did not matter. While Abelas had been inside, the world had changed in ways he could not understand. The only thing that remained was for him to experience it himself, to stretch his legs in a way he had not done in living memory.   


There was a boundary between the Temple and the rest of the Arbor Wilds. It was a deep, old magic that few could detect. It survived to protect the Sentinels, but also to make their long vigil more comfortable. Inside, there was no heat and humidity to rust armor or crumble old texts. It was always cool, the air still and listless. It was a static environment, even with the colorful birds that made their home there, able to pass through the magic easily. Seasons did not change. It never rained. The sun was always there, distantly shining through the trees, but the light that hit the tiles had no real warmth to it.   


It was the threshold not only of the Temple, but of a world he knew, and a world that was utterly foreign. The elves who had come, the Inquisitor herself… They had not been elvhen. The elvhen had passed into memory long ago. The Sentinels could have been the only remains of that proud civilization, leaving only degenerate, crawling forms to inhabit their ruins. The swords Abelas wore strapped to his back seemed of vital importance in this venture.   


No more hesitation. Mythal would guide his steps, even if she hadn’t answered his prayers, the questions he had earnestly whispered last night. His faith in Mythal was unwavering, even as everything else shook and changed.   


He passed through the barrier. The humidity hit him first, followed by the sunlight, blindingly harsh against his pale skin. The jungle covered all. Anything that had been outside the Temple before was grown over, lost to time and to the relentless onslaught of jungle foliage. There was only one clear path, recently trod, blood ground into the cracks between stone and dirt. This was the path Abelas set his feet upon.


	2. Ozymandias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I MET a Traveler from an antique land,   
>  Who said, "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone   
>  Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand,   
>  Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,   
>  And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,   
>  Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,   
>  Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,   
>  The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:   
>  And on the pedestal these words appear:   
>  "My name is OZYMANDIAS, King of Kings."   
>  Look on my works ye Mighty, and despair!   
>  No thing beside remains. Round the decay   
>  Of that Colossal Wreck, boundless and bare,   
>  The lone and level sands stretch far away.  
> -Percy Shelley

Gone. Everything he had once known was gone. Some part of him had expected this, had known that while he had spent years in a deep sleep, the world had moved forever onward. But knowing was not the same as physically seeing the ruins of his civilization spread before him. Every step he took, Abelas moved further into the past, trying to drudge up ancient, murky memories. What had this arch been, before it was choked by vines? Was this statue of a woman or a man, or something in between? Who had it once represented, and how long had it been since they were buried deep under ground? He had held onto the past so tightly, but it still trickled between his fingers, each individual memory slipping away into nothingness.

Abelas allowed himself a moment of weakness. Down he went, resting on his haunches, fingers tracing the shape of a mosaic that had been ground into the dirt. It had broken so that whatever it depicted wasn’t clear- an outstretched arm, perhaps, holding a torch. Once, it had been colorful, garish even. Now it was bleached by time, a purer shade of white than bone could ever be. He turned it over and over again in his hand until it lost all meaning. It was nothing more than a memory aid, a physical manifestation of a grief he was unwilling or unable to express yet. There was too much else to see, too many other places where the Elvhen had once stood strong. They could still remain in isolated pockets, as the Sentinels had. These Dalish could not be all that was left of his culture. 

The marble dropped from his grasp, falling a few feet to rest back in the dirt. It would no doubt lie there for years to come, until it became dirt itself, small granules that would be blown away by the wind. Without thinking, he wiped his fingers off on his golden armor. 

And what if he found the Elvhen, and they were not who they once were? Abelas had slumbered for so long. The world had passed him by and forgotten him almost entirely, but he had been isolated, locked away. There had been cities once, small towns. So many pockets that may have survived through trade, through connecting with others in a way the Sentinels had not. That left them open to cultural influence. It left them open to degradation. It was a path he could not stop his mind from following. The longer he thought on it, the more Abelas doubted if there were any true Elvhen left. There were Sentinels who yet lingered, and the ones who had returned to sleep, not knowing what else to do. Out in this new world, there was only him. 

Or perhaps he was not as alone as he thought. “Hold, hahren.” A voice interrupted him, prevented Abelas from taking another step off the path, further into the forest. The tone was respectful, but who dared? 

“The Veil is thin here. I closed a Rift not even an hour ago, but I think demons yet linger.” He recognized the woman who stepped out from the undergrowth. She was not alone- others stood a small distance away, watching. They had hands on their weapons, their distrust raising his own. 

This was the shem who had invaded the Temple, ruined the sanctity of the Well. This was the woman who had called herself Inquisitor. How dare she show her face here again? Days had passed by, and thought that he was at least free of her foolish meddling, free of her insistent that she was the same as him. Instead, she was here again, and she once again diverted his purpose. Her tone of respect was all that kept him from a cold, mounting rage. 

“Let me pass. This forest is not yours.” It was not his either, but it had once belonged to the Elvhen. Let him linger in memory in peace. 

“Abelas, please. Is this the first time you have left the Temple? Even the most proficient warrior would fall to demons.” Beseeching. False concern. Where was this concern when she let the human woman drink from the Well? She was a strange woman, to presume that he would listen to her at all. 

And yet. Abelas was not stupid. He had seen the deaths of so many at the Temple, as they fought against forces that far eclipsed their own. It would not do for him to dismiss her words, and walk into a situation he would not walk out of. 

“Do you know where you are going?” Again, her words made him defensive, but also brought the full impact of the truth down upon his head. He had no goal, beyond some nebulous wish to find what remained of his people. He was a guardian, not a traveler, his life bound up in one location for most of his life. 

The Inquisitor took his hesitance as a clear sign that he had no real journey in mind. “I would have your company, if you will concede to stay with me. There are Rifts I have yet to close. I am going to the Emerald Graves. There are things there that may interest you, ruins I would like to know the purpose of.” 

“I am not your servant, shem.” His words dripped with disdain, but he did not say no. He resigned himself to following this woman, at least for the time being, at least until she could get him somewhere safer. Her company was preferable to the vast loneliness that even now threatened to spill over and consume him. Her company was preferable to his thoughts and memories. It would have to be enough.


	3. The Sublime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
> 
> In which the burden of the mystery
> 
> In which the heavy and weary weight
> 
> Of all this unintelligible world,
> 
> Is lightened (37-41)."   
> \- Wordsworth "Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey"

Abelas was not traveling with the Inquisitor long before they chanced upon the first Rift.

In the two days they had been together, he had kept apart from them. He saw the way the Inquisitor’s companions looked at him- half fear, half blatant speculation. There may have been safety in numbers, but he began to regret not being alone. The Inquisitor herself was little better. Shiral. That was her name. He refused to call her by it, liking the formality and distance her title granted. She had many questions for him. Too many. He answered none of this, maintaining his stony silence. Sometimes she asked him what certain ruins once were. It hurt to say that he could not remember, so he said nothing. 

Even in this short span of time, there were many such ruins. The change in environment, from tropical to more temperate, did not change their frequency, nor how much they had crumbled away. The smallest fragments remained to tell of their origin, but he could remember none of it. It was all meaningless to him, as much of a mystery to him as it was to this Dalish woman. He was no better than her. It was a truth that stung, salt water in wounds that were still raw and bleeding. At night, Abelas slept away from the fire, falling asleep to the constant, inane chatter between Inquisitor and her three friends. If he kept enough of a distance, the words were nothing more than a soothing babble. 

Now the five of them stood on a small rise. It overlooked an opening between the trees, drenched in light. The meadow should have been a place of life, where wild halla grazed and birds ventured out to flash their display colors. Instead, it was unnaturally quiet. A few bones were gathered at the edge, but that was not what drew his gaze. How could anyone see anything else when the Rift was there? He had underestimated them entirely. 

In his mind, these Rifts had been small. Maybe one demon came out, perhaps two. This was something else entirely, something he could not rip his eyes away from. 

No one had told Abelas the Rifts were beautiful, yet here it was. It was not a traditional, soft beauty. It was one that inspired fear, made some part of him that was largely instinctual quiver. That shade of green could not be found in anything alive. It was the green of corruption, of a wound left to fester. It stood out defiant against the blue of the sky, seeming to pull all extra light into it so that it was almost painful to look upon. When they drew closer, he could hear small crackles, the sound of reality itself ripping and struggling to repair itself. He pulled out a sword, though he was not sure how that would help against this threat. It seemed more prudent to be armed than to face this without a length of metal in his hand. 

Where Abelas hesitated, the Inquisition stepped forward. They must have faced many like this before- for them, this was an ordinary activity. How could they face this terror over and over again, knowing that there were still more Rifts to close, more to be done? Who could tell what would emerge from these areas where the veil had been torn? 

As the four stepped closer to the Rift, it seemed to spread, mutate. Tendrils of it snaked to the ground, opening up holes that belched forth more green light and an immense plume of cold that made ice appear on his breath when he drew too close. 

“The demons will appear momentarily.” That was the Inquisitor, an arrow on her string, pointed at one of the holes. “Prepare yourself. Expect anywhere from four to six creatures to emerge.” Abelas should have bristled at her tone of command. Later, he would reprimand himself for obeying so readily, without question. For now, he only tightened his grip, waiting to see what would emerge. 

With a final crackle, the earth exploded outward in four points, spraying them all with dirt and bathing everything in sickly green light within a large radius. From these fissures emerged three Wraiths, the same green as the Rift itself, and behind them a demon made of fire and rage. 

Before Abelas could spring forward, the Inquisitor moved, letting loose an arrow that disintegrated a Wraith before it could even move. A mage, the Tevinter one, let loose a wall of fire as the warrior woman swung her shield, dispatching it neatly. The rogue, the pale boy with two daggers, worked on the third. That left Abelas facing the Rage Demon, even as the others moved to assist. 

The heat that came off it was immense. Was his bloodlust rising naturally, or was he feeding off the demon as it in turn fed off him? His sword bit into molten flesh, stopping at a core of something hard that sprang it back. The demon appeared to be injured, but it did not bleed. It simply slowed down, opening its maw to make a low, displeased noise, swinging at him. One arm came perilously close, enough so that Abelas could smell some of the hair on his arm singing. He had defended the Temple for so long, but he had not faced a demon such as this, had never had to worry about an intruder burning his skin if he got too close. 

An arrow whistled past his face, close enough that he thought he could feel the slim breeze it generated. It struck fairly true, hitting the demon just below one eye. The warrior moved forward, and between them, it was easily dispatched. Was that it? It wasn’t as terrible as Abelas had imagined, though his breath was running ragged in his throat, and part of his arm was pink and shiny. He rubbed it, preparing to sheathe his sword once more. 

“Not yet. There’s another wave. They come in pairs.” The mark on the Inquisitor’s hand grew brighter still. Did it pain her? He had not thought to ask. Perhaps he would speak to her more, after this. She was proving herself to be a capable warrior- far more so than he first thought. If his life was to be shattered like this, at least it had been shattered by someone who was not completely useless. 

The first wave went much as the first. Three Wraiths, one Rage Demon. What caused them to spawn so specifically? This time, Abelas stayed well back from the demon, turning to face one of the Wraiths. It spat something at him, a trail of green phosphorescence that made his heart seize with anxiety as it kissed his skin. Just that brief amount was enough to send him staggering back a step, though he recovered quickly enough, driving his sword into its heart, feeling the stirrings of an ancient magic within him. How much of his abilities did he dare reveal? Not here. Not now. 

The creatures left no bodies, left nothing except a bundle of ashes and rags. The Rift was open, but the Inquisitor stepped forward. The mark on her hand glowed, and the very essence of the tear trailed downward, sliding into the Anchor of her hand. She braced herself against it, holding her arm as straight as possible. With a tremendous boom, the Rift was gone, leaving no sign that the sky had just been opened. Sweat matted her brow, a reflection of pain in her eyes that was gone just as quickly as it appeared. Did it pain her to close these? How many times had she closed a Rift, knowing the pain it would cause her? 

This was the most Abelas had fought in many long years. He had been asleep before this, needing no nourishment. Now his muscles ached, a response to the march and the fight. He had grown weak in so many ways. When he compared himself to this shem, even if her title was important, he found he was a pale comparison, a memory of someone who used to be much greater. 

There was so much he had to improve.


	4. A Silent Suffering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A silent suffering, and intense;  
> The rock, the vulture, and the chain,  
> All that the proud can feel of pain,  
> The agony they do not show,  
> The suffocating sense of woe,  
> Which speaks but in its loneliness,  
> And then is jealous lest the sky  
> Should have a listener, nor will sigh  
> Until its voice is echoless."
> 
> -Prometheus, Lord Byron
> 
> All elven is courtesy of fenxshiral.tumblr.com  
> Mi’nas’sal’inan. (I feel the knife once more within my soul.)  
> Nuvas ema ir’enastela. May you have great blessings. Essentially, “Thank you so very much,” as opposed to just, “Thank you.”  
> Nuva lasa su ma enaste. May it give you grace. May it grant you favor. A very formal and archaic form of ‘you’re welcome,’ that is rarely used by Dalish.

“They call this area the Emerald Graves. I do not know what they called it when it was a part of Arlathan. I apologize.” Shiral was speaking to him. Abelas heard her words, but they slid over him as water slides over a stone in the river. They were there, but he was lodged firmly in his thoughts; her torrent would not shake him loose. 

Despite all that he had seen, the destruction once again struck him mute. The rest of their small party went forward, easily walking amongst the ruins of his former life. 

When the Exalted March began, word reached the Temple. The world still knew of them then, though their connection was failing quickly. So many had wanted to forsake the vows they had made and join the others in defending their home against the shems and their Andraste. Arlathan may have fallen, but remnants of it remained. Their society still had small spots intact, a hope for something to grow once more. It was Abelas who had stayed their hands, Abelas who had told them all that they risked a traitor’s death by leaving. Their role had always been to protect the temple. Outside affairs, though they may slaughter friends and relatives, were beyond their area of concern. He could have saved them. He could have let his warriors loose. Their rigorous training could have turned the tide.

“Vallasdahlen,” he whispered, just loud enough for Shiral to hear. Her voice had trailed off as she realized he no longer paid attention to what she was saying. He walked as if in a dream, eyes riveted on the trees before him, one slow, measured step following another. Her companions gave Abelas space, but Shiral stayed close to him. He was so lost in his own sorrow that he would never divorce himself from his name. It hung around his neck, the albatross of his own grief and longing and failure. 

“These trees. Vallasdahlen.” Abelas did not know why he told her. She stood a few feet away, simply watching. It eased his loneliness to a small degree. “They were better elvhen than I. When we walk beneath these shaded boughs, we must stop to remember them.” He kept a hand on the trunk of one of the mighty trees, tracing a slow circle around it. He vanished behind it for a moment before reappearing, rooted to his original spot. 

“Mathalin. He came when I was already in Mythal’s service, but even I have heard of him. He fought against the shems. He kept these lands free for as long as he could.” 

“We found a sword here once.” Shiral broke the silence. “I have carried it with me since, though I do not know how to use it. It did not seem right to have anyone who was not an elf bear it. If you would accept it, I would give it to you.” Cassandra moved forward silently as Shiral’s wave, unbinding a sword from her back. She did not speak to Abelas or meet his eyes. When they had first arrived in the Emerald Graves, Cassandra had stopped to bow her head to a statue of Andraste, saying a prayer at its feet. To her, this was simply reverence to her god. To Abelas, it was a sign of disrespect. This statue was too recently here. It represented too much death and destruction. They had not spoken since. 

Abelas took the blade in his hands. The weight felt right. It felt good. It was leaf shaped, more of a cleaver than a true sword. His mind reached into deep crevices until he realized what he held. 

“Evanura.” There was awe in his voice. “You give this freely?” He regarded Shiral keenly, perhaps for the first time since the temple. His gaze had made many tremble, but she stood firm in the face of it, unblinking. 

“No one else is fit to bear it. It is our gift to you, though it cannot undo the damage we have done.” She was correct in that. This blade did not fix the well, but it was something else, something of his people that he could physically hold onto. The connection to the past had never felt stronger. He felt almost pathetically grateful to the Inquisitor, though he kept his face placid. 

“This sword was forged by June himself. It has been passed down from Emerald Knight to Emerald Knight, but it was thought lost with Lindirinae. I do not know how you found it. That a shem could…” Abelas paused. Could a shem truly find such an important artifact? Its magic should have meant it only revealed itself to the elvhen, yet this woman was nothing. A Dalish. He could not voice these thoughts out loud, could not properly express his gratitude without giving it away. Instead, he once more put his back to her and stood before another tree, head bowed. His lips moved, but his prayer was not meant to be spoken out loud. The ancient tongue flowed over his lips easily, filling his mind with the closest thing to peace in weeks. 

So much was lost, yet she had unknowingly given him a sliver of hope. Abelas thought back to their initial meeting, a lifetime ago. The bald elf was not with the party now, he noted. But what had he said? His people yet remained. At the time, Abelas had dismissed it. But what if there were pockets of elvhen civilization clinging to remote areas? It was time to give it serious consideration, instead of simply dismissing it. After all this time, the legendary sword had been found. It was a sword that had been physically touched by a god, almost unspeakably old, but it shined as if it was freshly forged. He finished his prayer with a simple phrase, spoken out loud. The edges of it just reached Shiral’s ears. “Mi’nas’sal’inan.” 

“Nuvas ema ir’enastela.” The words he spoke meant nothing to anyone but the Inquisitor. 

“Nuva lasa su ma enaste,” she returned, the words stumbling a little on her tongue. The effort was none the less appreciated. 

Abelas fought the urge to smile.


	5. Roving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For the sword outwears its sheath,  
> And the soul wears out the breast,  
> And the heart must pause to breathe,  
> And love itself have rest."
> 
> -Lord Byron
> 
> I originally intended to fit a lot more in this chapter, but at 1000 words I made myself stop. I promise you, the next chapter may actually feature some fluff in it. Abelas will certainly be less of an ass. For now, I leave you with this.

“He is so alone. How is he so alone when he is surrounded by us? He does not call us friends. Why?” The haunting, sing song voice of the spirit boy reached Abelas. He was still keeping his distance from the main party, gift notwithstanding. When he felt those first tendrils of trust unfurling, he had ripped himself away, leaving their roots to dangle in the air. They were all shems, and this pale boy was no exception. Abelas knew not what he was, only that he was not human, and he knew too much. His eyes seemed to miss nothing. 

Abelas had been with them for too long. He had seen a Rift, and knew what dangers he faced striking out on his own once more, but even a few days would be a welcome relief; time enough to gather his thoughts and establish his independence once more. He was a slave to no one now, though his heart still ached for the safety and routine of Mythal’s temple. Their constant noise was at once both a comfort and an impending headache, their words in a tongue he had not spoken for a long, long time. They spoke of such inconsequential things- other members of the Inquisition, shem politics, even of food they would enjoy when they returned to Skyhold. Could they not see that the world was still tearing itself apart, leaving fragments who knew not where to go? 

The Inquisitor, Shiral, had told Abelas a few things of interest. In Dirthavaren, now called the Exalted Plains, remnants of his people still existed. She had visited the place herself, paid her respects at the graves of those hundreds of years in the earth. Var Bellanaris. The name echoed on his lips. 

His leave taking was quiet. “We will follow you, but give you two days grace.” Abelas did not wish to be followed, to be treated like a child by Shiral, but he saw the wisdom of her statements. It was still far too dangerous for him to strike out entirely on his own. That she gave him any time at all seemed like a blessing. He saw how she looked at others, how she protected them with every movement of her body. She was as much bound to the people of Thedas as he had been to Mythal. They were her responsibility; the Well had been his. Hopefully she would not fail as he had. 

The journey itself, though spaced out over several days, was quiet. He moved quickly and quietly, relying on his own feet rather than a noisy mount. With Enavura on his back, he felt safer than he had before, more confident in his decisions. It may not be a relic of Mythal, but he felt June’s blessing upon his brow, and it was something, a small flicker of warmth deep inside where before it had only been cold. 

What Shiral had not warned him of was the Dalish clan that stood in the way of his journey. It would have been easy to slip past them, but he found himself curious. He knew how the elves had fallen, but only from word of mouth. He had seen the woman Shiral, and seen the disconnect she had to what she considered a dead past, but she was but one woman. Here was an entire clan, different from this Lavellan group that she had come from. Though he was not given to hope, Abelas had a deep desire to believe that all was not lost. 

Even from a distance, he could see that his desire would not be fulfilled. Their aravels were broken, patched poorly where they were fixed at all. They were small, hardly worthy of the title. In Arlathan, only the poorest would have traveled this way. The halla were no better. Though he was some distance away, it was not perspective that made them small. The sight of golden horns temporarily stilled his thoughts, but even that beast was stunted, undersized. Could anyone even ride such beasts? They were a miniature form what what once was. Everything was so much smaller, so much less grand, than it had been. He had no further desire to make contact with the clan, but they had seen him already. Their hunters had bows trained him, laughable weapons made of branches. Only one had ironbark in it, and its carving was rough at best. 

The one who could only be their Keeper moved forward, flanked on either side by elves with bows and swords. Abelas was aware that his appearance was unusual- his robes, his intricate armor, and even his height marked him as different from these Dalish, yet his features were unmistakably similar. It pained Abelas, that they should share pointed ears, high cheekbones, and vallaslins that marked them as related. It was a relation he did not wish to have. 

“Greetings, stranger. I am Keeper Hawen, of Clan Vheraan. What business do you have here?” The Keeper’s tone was respectful, but his arms were crossed, a frown settled permanently between his eyes. They drew closer still, but Abelas felt no need for his weapons. They would not touch him. 

When Hawen stood only a few feet away, his eyes widened. He hastily bowed at the waist, and after a shared, puzzled glance, his warriors did the same, though they did not bow their heads. Their eyes were on Abelas, waiting for him to move to his weapons. 

“An’daran Atish’an. You… You are Elvhen. Our kin.” It amused Abelas to see how full of awe this elf was, now he almost stumbled back, his eyes wide. Hawen bore the same vallaslin as Shiral, but it only made him look comical. Andruil would never claim one such as this as her own. 

“I am not kin to one such as you. Let me pass through unmolested, and I will say no more.” Scorn hung heavy on his voice. Every step that Abelas had taken forward toward a greater understanding of the modern Dalish was ruined by this quivering man, this excuse for a clan leader. His broken aravels and small halla were an insult to all the Elvhen had been. 

“Please, hahren, stay. There is so much we would learn from you.” And now Hawen begged, a mewling noise that pained Abelas to hear. His lip curled upward, the temptation to sneer overwhelming. 

“Would you? I can see how much information you have retained already.” Abelas’ gesture took in the whole camp, small as it was, as few members as it had, lingering around campfires, trying to make do with rotten canine hides and overcooked meat.  
“We do the best we can, with what texts we have left…” Hawen’s voice trailed off; Abelas was already turning his back on the encampment, on the Dalish. There were more important places to see.


	6. This Bower my Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes:  
> Var Bellanaris is the cemetery in the Exalted Plains  
> The phrase 'Ady myan ma' is courtesy of fenxshiral's elven project, and means "I shall follow you" with some sweet connotations underlying it. I am finally giving you light fluff. 
> 
> "They, meanwhile,  
> Friends, whom I never more may meet again,  
> On springy heath, along the hill-top edge,  
> Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance"  
> -Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Head bowed, Abelas lost himself in silent meditation. He knelt in the shadow of the trees, spaced equidistant between the two stone harts that guarded the entrance to Var Bellanaris. In the fury-scorched Exalted Plains, this place was an oasis, green and calm, somehow untouched by shem hands. It remained, its cultivated perfection lost during the long years, but still standing. It survived when little else had.

When his head cleared, Abelas rose. He was not surprised to see that the night had passed by and that morning had come once again. He was used to resting for far longer periods of time; what was one day to him?

His knees ached as he rose. He was still not used to having a body with limitations, to so much time spent awake. He forgot how to care for himself, forgot that immortality did not mean he was immune to all woes. The pain in his body he could quash. It was the pain he felt inside that he was unsure how to combat. He scratched at the wound, tearing it open further instead of letting it heal. He reveled in it, festered in it, and today he would let it bleed more, for today he would finally enter Var Bellanaris.

It dated from after Arlathan, but there were names he knew here. The tomb stones were faded, weeds growing over every grave, but it was still beautiful, and it still filled him with a deep longing for the world to go back to the way it was. Abelas would never have Arlathan back, but if he could cling to familiar things, it need not entirely die. It would live on in him, shaping him, informing him. He would live in his name for all his long years, watching the world pass by once again.

Once again, Abelas knelt in the dirt. His fingers brushed the grime of years from a name. Nehna. He had known her once. She visited the Temple once or twice, when petitioners had still come to pay their respects to Mythal and to seek guidance. She had been but a child then. One day, she had stopped visiting. Slowly, fewer and fewer came, until the sentinels were nearly alone in that cavernous space. Arlathan fell, and still he remained, fulfilling his duties. Had Nehna ever become an adult? Had she lived a long, full life, or had she died of illness, or from fighting? There was little said about her- simply her name and a message of sorrow.

Causes of death were not listed. This was a place for remembrance of lives, a place for their legacies to continue on. Our eternity. Still, Abelas paused at each name. There were so many, and he did not recognize them all, but he attempted to memorize them and to give them their due. Some of them were no doubt Dalish as they stood in their modern iteration, but they were closer to Arlathan than any who survived now. Perhaps their knowledge had been stronger, their wisdom less diluted than it was now. So many hopes in his heart. He was too small of a vessel for these emotions.

The smallest noise disturbed him. It was a twig snapping, or old leaves crinkling under foot. His head turned sharply, one hand going to his swords. Abelas relaxed marginally when he saw it was only Shiral, the Inquisitor. She came earlier than expected, disturbing his contemplation. He tried to tamp down his anger, frightened at how quickly it came.

“Abelas.” Her voice was quiet in this area, filled with sorrow. She felt its aura as much as Abelas did, but she had been here not so long ago and paid her respects then. The Dalish who camped nearby had not left her a positive message about the sentinel. They were still rattled, suddenly uncertain of everything they stood for. Her own reassurances seemed paltry; they had little trust of her, despite the fact she was as Dalish as they were. Shiral brought Andraste with her, whether she wanted to or not. She spread the shem influence.

“Shiral. You are early.” His voice was so carefully modulated; too much so. There was a frown between her blue eyes that she made no attempt to conceal.

“I could not leave you here. Abelas, you live within your name too much. If I left you here, would I lose you to the sorrow you are determined to hold onto?” _We have all lost someone_ , she wanted to scream. _You are not the only one to experience so much death_. It would be wrong of her; her deaths were not equivalent to his own. He had lost an entire civilization, while Shiral’s yet lingered. Yet, in a way, she had lost the Dalish. She could never return to them, and they would not accept her even if she could forgo her duties. She was too changed to ever be part of the clan again. That people still called her Lavellan was a mere courtesy.

Shiral’s words shook Abelas. He wanted to grow angry, wanted to lash out at her, but the truth was stinging him. He had told Solas that he would find something new and yet here he was. All he had done was linger around the old and hope that he could bring it to life again, that his touch was as magical as the Inquisitor’s.

“Please. Let me take you from here. Spend tonight with us again. I know we are all shems to you, but forgive our ignorance.” She was pleading with him, though her gaze was strong. Maybe she was simply asking. Abelas’ thoughts were a swirl. He could not pluck one from another. His heart ached and suddenly the idea of company had an immense appeal, even if they were foolish and mortal with lives like mayflies.

“I will go with you. Ady myan ma.” His face was serious, making Shiral doubt she had heard correctly. Her elvish suffered with Solas gone. Everyone else spoke to her in Common. Perhaps she had forgotten some of the complex grammatical rules of her people. Perhaps Abelas had confused his far older tongue with the newer devolution of the language. So much of how he spoke was archaic. She could not stop to think on it now.

There was a horse tied up outside, in the shade of one of the harts. It was unsaddled, with only a bridle on. “We’re camped some distance away.” Shiral simply shrugged her shoulders, untying her mount from a stake in the ground. The horse looked hardly disturbed, a true gentle giant. She was so small next to it, and had to use a large boulder to scramble upon its broad back. She sat forward, high on the horse’s withers and then gestured behind her. “It will be faster this way.”

There were no horses in the Temple of Mythal. It had been many, many years since Abelas had sat astride anything. His ascent up its back was hardly graceful- he nearly pulled Shiral off, which made her laugh even as she clutched the beast’s mane and struggled to keep her seat. Once he was up there, he sat uneasily, unsure where to put his arms, unsure how to keep his body in rhythm with the beat of four legs. “Put your arms around me to hold on.” Shiral spoke firmly and Abelas found himself obeying. He was glad she could not see him, for his discomfort must have been all too clear. He was too close to her; he could feel the heat rising from her body, mingling with his own. He could feel the shape of her pressed against him, see where her hair hung away from her slender neck, see where her vallaslin peered out from underneath her armor. For the first time in many years, since he had been a young man with a hot head and far too many hormones, Abelas felt himself flush. _Mythal preserve me._  



	7. Hellas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Athens shall arise,  
>  And to remoter time  
> Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,  
>  The splendour of its prime;  
> And leave, if nought so bright may live,  
> All earth can take or Heaven can give.  
> -Hellas: Chorus Percy Shelley

Beneath the bower of an old and gnarled tree, Abelas dreamed. 

The veil was thin here; he seemed to enter the Fade more readily than normal, aware that now he strode among dreams. A battlefield spread before him, the harsh grating of sword on sword intermingling with cries of pain in the air, the actions of the warriors unconsciously echoing battles long since past. Those fools! Didn’t they know that with every drop of blood, they drew demons to a weakening barrier? 

In their lion-headed helms, the soldiers clashed again and again. It was a ceaseless tide; when one died, another simply took his place, looping back to the start. Rooted in place, Abelas realized that he was not seeing the reality of the battle, but a repeat of it, the same men dying to each other’s hands again and again. Fragments appeared, an older vision of things bleeding through. Amongst the humans, elves fought. Sometimes their limbs seemed to pass through each other, so that for a brief moment human and elven were one. Then they were separate entities once more, hundreds of years of battles falling together into one mess that stained the parched earth red. 

Still Abelas could do nothing. His fingers itched with impatience- if he could stop their fighting, he could save this place that had been so sacred to his people. If he could take but a single step, raise his voice high enough…

Awake. There was a gentle hand on his shoulder, half rubbing, half shaking. “Abelas?” He opened his eyes to see Shiral’s face leaning down on him, concert written into her features. It wrinkled Andruil’s markings, drawing the tips of the arrows too close together. He had one brief, groggy thought that it was unpleasant to see her concerned so much for him.   
“Your sleep was restless. I was afraid you were trapped in dreams.” She sat back, giving him his distance to rise and roll his shoulders back. The fire was low, illuminating only her profile, giving a curious silver halo around her hair. 

“When you rest here, do the battles follow you into the Fade?” He could not be alone in this. She was not elvhen, but even those who had known the intimacies of ancient magic must feel it crouching on their shoulders. 

“Sometimes. I see the elves fight in battle. They die no matter what I do. Sometimes I see the Orlesians. Their fight was very recent. They look at me in reproach and tell me I could have helped them sooner. I could have stopped the battle of I had solved the conflict between Celene and Gaspard that much faster.” It was impossible to read Shiral’s expression in the dark, but her voice was grim. 

“Orlesians? The lion helms?” Who Gaspard and Celene were did not concern Abelas; only that their men would not leave him alone to sleep. 

“They fought many skirmishes here, each vying for a title. They both spat upon elves, yet it was left to me to decide who should rule. I saved the woman, Celene. She had an elven lover once, who came from the city. I made it clear that her lover should hold the real power, but who can say for how long that will last? I have no head for politics.” And yet politics had found Shiral and given her no choice. Would it ever cease to haunt her? 

Abelas was silent for a moment. He had no thought that shem battles would influence his life, but here they snuck up on him and threatened to drown him with their influence. This vying for power reminded him uncomfortably of a lifetime ago, when Arlathan fell. “The elvhen fought like that, in the end. Their empire was crumbling and the slaves rose in revolt, but they saw nothing more than titles that could be won and pried from dead hands.” It was yet one more thing Abelas had not been able to help with, stuck as he was in Mythal’s service. He saw it only from an outsider’s perspective, from the harried penitents that came in fewer numbers to the Well. “Those political jousts ruined them as much as all their other actions did.” There was pain in admitting that the elvhen had ever done wrong, but catharsis as well. Finally, the gilt veneer he had applied to his memories began to clear. 

“The Orlesians keep slaves as well. They are elves. I thought I was different from them, but then I saw them. They have no vallaslin. They are hunted and harried as the Dalish never have been. They were afraid of me, whispered about me as if I was a myth. They don’t know the Gods.” And there had been nothing Shiral could do, except watch helplessly and hope that the grand maneuvers she made lessened the burdens on them. It felt like a mere drop, when her help should have been a river. “You should see them.” She knew how Abelas had seen the Dalish, but the Dalish were still too similar. Maybe seeing the city elves would provoke a different response. 

“They are not my people. Why should I be concerned?” Yet there was doubt in Abelas’ voice, and he could not shake it. Slavery was nothing new to him; he had been little more than a slave himself. Yet even as a slave, he had been fed. He had comfortable lodgings, and did not fear physical punishment. Mythal left her marks on his brow, but she left it with gentle fingers that trailed down his body. 

“We will ride for Halamshiral, and you will see the city elves. Then you will tell me if you still think they are not your people.” There was challenge in Shiral’s voice, but a slight smirk on her face. She was so assured. She dared to smile at him, to taunt him? She dared, and so much more. Abelas knew he would follow her, that curiosity would not allow him to break away. He had to see with his own eyes, if only to prove her wrong. 

Thoughts aflame, he did not notice as Shiral leaned forward, her lips brushing just the corner of his cheek. “Sleep well,” she said and rose. He sat in stunned silence, body as firmly rooted as it had been in the dream, and by the time he tried to stand, to call out to her to come back, to say that he would feel her lips elsewhere, she had returned to the other side of the fire to sleep.


	8. Mind Forg'd Manacles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wander thro' each charter'd street,  
> Near where the charter'd Thames does flow.   
> And mark in every face I meet  
> Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
> 
> In every cry of every Man,  
> In every Infants cry of fear,  
> In every voice: in every ban,  
> The mind-forg'd manacles I hear   
> London - William Blake

Thirteen days of hard riding brought them to a summit that overlooked the city of Halamshiral. Its high walls glimmered in the sunlight; from this angle, everything appeared perfect and serene. 

“At least it’s not still smoking.” Shiral’s tone was sardonic, bitter. She turned her back on the city quickly, spurring her mount down the hill and away from the main road, paved carefully in white and grey. The path they took was just dirt, rutted and worn by many thousands of feet. Sewage trickled down the sides. Even the horses stepped carefully to avoid it. Abelas said nothing. He merely took it in. He knew what sights awaited him past the wooden gate in the city walls. For all that it was half rotted, there were armed guards who surveyed them nervously. 

“I’ll leave you here. I have business at the Winter Palace, and I am not popular at the alienage. At sunset we will meet by the gate again.” Shiral would brook no argument. She did not want to even be this close, worried that she would feel the hatred seeping through the thick stone walls, absorbing it into her soul. “I am sorry. I must go.” How could she explain her own complicated feelings about the city elves when Abelas had not yet even seen them? This was something he would have to see with his own eyes, his opinion unencumbered by her own. It was important that he experience the world first hand, rather than hearing about it from her, shaped with her own poor words. 

Upon stepping between the guards, Abelas was immediately assailed by the stench of the place. He saw the desperate attempts to keep the area clean and tidy, but little could be done without indoor plumbing, when all the land in the city sloped downward so that its waste pooled and collected among homes and shops. The buildings were all wood, likely salvaged materials. They leaned into one another where they had not collapsed completely. Scorch marks ran up the sides of many, while even more were little more than blackened beams and ashes that no one had time to sweep away. It was a somber reminder that little here remained. Temporary shelters, little more than shacks of leftover materials and hide, dotted every space where a house had once stood. Though there were signs they had made an effort to rid themselves of filth, it was unavoidable. Baleful eyes glanced at him, taking him in, but no one bothered to address him. 

Still, he felt their eyes on him, burning him as surely as the sun. Whispers began to reach his ears. They looked upon him with a mix of fear and disgust, shied away from his footsteps. He had not felt such fear in hundreds of years. Finally someone broke the silence. 

He was old, or at least appeared to be, his skin weathered and back bent. His hair was the silver of age, unlike the pure color Abelas had. Wrinkles coated a face that was marred with no tattoo, no vallaslin that proclaimed his allegiance to a god. It was strange for Abelas to see someone thus after encountering the Dalish, who bore their slave brands with pride. Here were the lowest of the low, but they bent their head in service to no gods.

The old man spat in the dirt perilously close to Abelas’ feet. Now he knew why Shiral had requested that he wear boots. 

“Your kind isn’t welcome here, Dalish. Go quickly. We haven’t forgotten what Briala said about you lot.” Who was Briala? Abelas opened his mouth to speak and just as quickly shut it. His pride was wounded, but his survival instincts remained intact. Too many eyes were watching him. They peered from every window, from every make-shift lean-to. They waited with rocks in hand, all too prepared to defend themselves and drive him out. He had not come here to make enemies. He had come simply to observe, but he felt as though he had already seen enough. 

What connection did these elves hold to all that he knew? They were all so much smaller than his people had been, so much less bright. Compared to them, Shiral was the sun, painful to look at. These were shadows of his empire. No, shadows of shadows, burnt into the ground and unable to be scrubbed off. 

Still… There was something there that he could not deny. It was in the shape of their ears. It was in the pride and fight they still possessed, even though half their home had been burned down, half their population slaughtered. His own people had slaves. He had been a slave. Though his carriage was more erect, his form more perfect, he felt a kinship stirring that he had not felt with the Dalish. It was too soon; Abelas turned his back on the alienage, steps hastening as he tried to get away from the dirt and the devastation that bombarded every one of his senses. This pity that blossomed inside him felt too new and too foreign and his legs ached to run from it. 

The slums held one more challenge for him. A group of humans, dressed nobly and wearing the masks that Orlesian society dictated were necessary, had cornered a child. She was on the cusp of adulthood, really, though she was small and malnourished. Though it was broad daylight, the humans had chased her down a darkened alley. Other elves looked on, fists clenched so tight that their nails drew blood, but they did nothing. The fear was naked on their faces. None of them would move. Not when reprisal was still so fresh. 

He had not intended to get involved, but Abelas moved when his mind instructed him not to, his hand on the hilt of the elven sword Shiral had given him. “Let her be.” The threat of violence in his voice surprised even him. What did this girl mean to him? She was no one he knew, yet he would not let her be ruined like the rest of this sad place. Not while he watched. 

“Knife-ear. Who gave you the sword? You know your kind can’t have arms.” The humans turned to face him. They were so young, barely more than boys themselves, but their rapacious expressions aged them. Their thick accents were harsh on his ear.

“He doesn’t look like the rest. Look at his tattoos.” One of the men stirred uneasily, their postures sinking inward. “Let’s get the guards.” They nodded to each other, clearly unused to an elf that would dare to raise a hand, never mind a honed, edged weapon. Together, they ran like the cowards they were. 

“Sir… thank you.” The child spoke for the first time. Abelas could only shake his head. “Run. Run before they return.” Though he could see her gratitude, it did not veil her fear. She was as afraid of him as she had been of the humans. The mess he had created would fall back upon the elves that live here, while he walked away unscathed. Guilt burned, fire in his veins. 

Shiral waited for him at the gate, as she said she would. Though she leaned against the wall with all the appearance of being casual, he saw the tension she held, the way her eyes would not stop scanning the surroundings, never resting on one thing for too long. In return, she saw how stricken he was. This was not what she had intended, but it was something he had needed to discover for himself. 

“They know my nickname. They call me the Shrike. It’s a mockery. They say that I left them impaled on the thorns of politics, left to die slowly, writhing in pain.” 

Abelas kept his distance. “And you did nothing to help them?” 

“I was tied down before. I needed the Orlesians. I needed their army to fight Corypheus. I find that those ties are no longer quite so important. They are not worth feeling so unsettled in my soul. If you would help me, we can save the elves of Orlais. We can fight where they cannot.” 

With two strides, Abelas closed the distance between them, and for the first time, he let his emotions overtake his inhibitions, placing his lips on hers, not bothering to be gentle. Yes. Yes, he would help her. They would save the elves of Orlais. Their battle would begin.


	9. The Ruined Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abelas meets Iron Bull, and tries to ignore the stirrings of his heart. 
> 
> Oft in my waking dreams do I  
> Live o'er again that happy hour,  
> When midway on the mount I lay,  
>  Beside the ruined tower.
> 
> "Love"   
> Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The road back to Skyhold was paved with Abelas’ doubt. He itched to take action, felt stifled by the political machinations that demanded the Inquisitor return first to her seat of power before they made any moves. The Orlesian game was one had never played, with rules more complex than could be adequately explained even in a span of days.

At night, when he fell to his knees in supplication, Mythal was silent, as she had been for too long now. What did it mean when a slave was considered for his Goddess? What did it say about Abelas, about his relationship with her? He was increasingly clinging to silence, his efforts to sort out his own mind failing again and again. As they traveled, he turned away from Shiral once more, unable to take how hurt she looked, equally unable to speak of their shared kiss. It had been a mistake. It had felt wonderful, but it could not be. From the comfort of horseback, he often rode ahead, staying to well marked paths and refusing to deviate. Instead, he tried to focus on his renewed sense of purpose. He would free the elves from the slums of Halamshiral, and help them rediscover their history. These shem entanglements were merely a side step to his journey, a momentary diversion. With eternity stretching before him, there was no rush. If that was the truth, why did he wish to do more? 

The sight of Skyhold stilled his thoughts. Parts of it were ruined still, walls being rebuilt as they had been for hundreds of years. “We think the original structure was built by the elvhen, though no one knows.” Shiral had said this by the fire one night. Their eyes had met over the dancing flame, and he had been held there for a minute, unable to extract himself. Accusations lay on the surface there, interlaced with questions. He had no ready answer, no clever retort. How could he explain the concept of immortality, of inevitable loneliness? It was far easier for him to say nothing at all, to let that gap grow larger by the day, than to say he was afraid of losing her, of one day watching her bones crumble into dust while he remained, silent tears running down the branches of his face. 

This castle was what Shiral called home. He saw how people greeted her, running alongside her horse with flowers in their hands, their laughter bringing a smile to her own face. It looked wan, to his eyes, but he did not know her well enough to say. Instead, he simply hung back, watching the party greet friends and loved ones, watching the respect even the lowest servants gave to Shiral. She did not allow them to bow; she even hugged one old cook, back swayed and bent. The smell of dough reached him even here, bringing back sharp memories of the bakeries of his childhood. So much had changed, but the scent of rising bread remained the same. It dizzied him enough that he closed his eyes for a moment, leaning against his mount for some of its animal strength. 

Shiral’s other companions joined them then, hugging each other or clapping one another on the back. Even in their disparate shapes, the oxman stood out, towering well above them, his horns casting a wide swath of shade. Abelas had never seen one of his kind in person. His golden eyes met the oxman’s singular, the other covered by an eye patch. There was a mutual sizing up, to which Abelas could only give a grudging nod. There was something to respect in this appearance of brute strength, in the sheer size of the man. He looked capable, to say the very least. 

“Boss, looks like you caught another straggler. Who’s that?” Ah, the oxman spoke. His voice had more of a melody to it than Abelas expected. 

“That’s Abelas. Abelas, this is Iron Bull. The Iron Bull. Perhaps he’ll be so kind as to show you around while I attend to business. Abelas is a sentinel of Mythal. Was.” Was it his imagination, or was she cool to him? Abelas saw the hint of mischief in her eyes though. She did not expect them to get along. Or she expected them to get along too well. Impossible woman. It vexed him so that he did not notice her trip over the tense. 

The oxman came over, extending one massive, claw tipped hand for Abelas to shake. They squeezed each other tightly, each trying to overpower the other, until Iron Bull laughed out loud, surprising Abelas into dropping his hand. “You’re alright. The Boss knows how to pick good people. C’mon, I’ll show you the tavern.” Tavern? Ah yes, alcohol. It was a vice Abelas did not indulge in, though as he watched Shiral walk away, a smile still on her face, his heart wrenched sideways and he thought that a drink would not go amiss. 

Minutes later, a questionable tankard of something before him, sitting across from a Qunari, Abelas reconsidered it once more. If Mythal saw him, she no doubt felt shame. How had he ended up here? But this Iron Bull would not be silent long enough for Abelas to indulge in his thoughts, to become as introspective as he wanted to be. 

“I saw you watching the Boss. She’s a beautiful woman. Dangerous though; little bit like a dragon.” Was it his imagination, or did Iron Bull sound wistful? Something defensive rose within Abelas. He could feel himself bristle, as foolish as it was. He had no claim over Shiral. They shared a kiss, and he had voluntarily broken apart their contact. 

“It is not like that.” His tone was as stiff as his spine, the tankard still lying untouched between his hands. 

“Sure. Whatever you say.” The air was awkward between them, though Bull filled the silence by taking long gulps from his own cup. Abelas took the smallest sip, face wrinkling in disgust. He did not know how the oxman could stand to drink this, and so quickly. 

Minutes stretched into a half hour. They eventually spoke again, though it was mostly Bull. He spoke of inconsequential things, of places and people around Skyhold. The litany of names meant nothing to Abelas. He took the time instead to comb his mind for any mentions of this place, of a stone palace built into remote mountains. There may have been something, but he could not hold onto it while Bull was speaking. Especially when he brought up Shiral, as he did repeatedly, pointedly, trying to gauge Abelas’ reaction. 

“She won’t come to you. You have to go to her. She’s like that.” Abelas tried to ignore it, but those last words held his attention. Shiral had said nothing. Perhaps the space between them was as much her as it was him. Listening to tales of her conquests, of the battles she had fought alongside Bull, he could not keep his admiration muted. Somewhere, a fire burned in his heart, and it would not be extinguished.


	10. Too Long in the City Pent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there may yet be hope for our favorite grumpy old man. 
> 
> To one who has been long in city pent,  
>  'Tis very sweet to look into the fair  
>  And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer  
> Full in the smile of the blue firmament.  
> To One Who Has Been Long in City Pent  
> BY JOHN KEATS

The Iron Bull invited him to a game called Wicked Grace, and lacking any good excuse, Abelas agreed to watch. He had almost immediate regrets, ill at ease in this busy place. 

While the roof of the tavern was high, it was not a large building, and this time of the evening it was very crowded. The press of bodies, the smell of a hard day’s work, made him wrinkle his nostrils in distaste. It had been many years since he had been crowded like this, and in his memories, the elvhen smelled of flowers and rain. 

Apparently this Wicked Grace game was quite popular. Introductions were thrown at him, and he simply nodded in return, his face unreadable. The Inquisitor, Shiral was here, her movements open and easy, a smile on her face. The air between them still felt cool; conversely, it made his face burn. His eyes went everywhere but to her own. It felt conspicuous, yet no one said a thing. Instead, cards were dealt. He did not play, and did not even begin to understand the rules. Bets were made, and from his position over the dwarf’s shoulder, Abelas tried to understand who genuinely had a good hand who bluffed. 

“Hey Dusty, you just watching or are you going to join us?” A few rounds later and Abelas still didn’t fully comprehend the game. Varric’s invitation rankled at his pride. 

“That is not my name.” Yet Abelas took a seat at the table all the same, holding cards given to him in stiff fingers. “I have none of your coin,” he pointed out. He had not needed any, did not want any. To learn the money of this realm was to commit to it in a way he would never do. The metal was cold and dead when he held it. 

“He is my guest. He can share my money.” Shiral pushed over a seizable pile of coins to him and winked. The audacity of it made Abelas crack a smile, though he tried to hide it. For one moment, their eyes met again, half grins on both their faces. Then it was broken, and Abelas studied his cards intently. The faces were human, modeled after kings and queens he had never heard of. The idea was the same though; cards had been the same in Arlathan. Waxed paper, the same size, the same symbols. To find something so similar was a comfort. He turned one over and over again his fingers, heedless of the fact he was showing its face to the world. He had no expectations of winning the game, and felt only mild for spending Shiral’s money so recklessly. She must have known, after all. 

An hour later, and Abelas understood that the point of the game was not so much to win, but to make your companions so drunk that they collapsed at the table. Their speech was slurred now, only Shiral and the Antivan, Josephine, staying sober. Cullen, the Templar, was asleep. From the ribald joking, this was apparently an improvement over the last few games. Their talk washed over Abelas, a balm to his soothed soul, but it did not include him. He was on the edges here, and while Shiral attempted to include him, she often spoke of people he had never meant, events that had occurred when he had been locked away in the Temple. He was a stranger here. Every newcomer to the tavern stared at him as they walked in, taking in his burnished armor and tall figure. The air began to feel very close, the smoke settling on his shoulders. How many glasses of honeyed mead had he drank while trying to keep memories of his own companions away? Too late to count now. His head swam. 

Only the bracing air calmed him. Abelas understood that it was always cold here, where the air was thin and the mountains did not lose their snowy caps. Even now, in late spring, a light snow was falling. It would kill all the flowers that had bloomed between the stones. 

“We will ride for Val Royeux in the morning. They have the largest alienage in Orlais, but few ever see it. It is the heart of their society. You must understand Orlesians before we can change things so drastically. It will not be pleasant.” Shiral put a hand on his arm, but he did not turn to look at her. His face was turned up to the falling snow. “I am sorry.” What did she apologize for? There was so much hidden in her voice. When at least he looked at her, her eyes were softer than he had seen before. 

“Your companions seem kind. For shems.” This small bit of leeway was all that Abelas would allow. Recent memories of their laughter and teasing had softened him. Where had his defenses gone? To hold up his walls for so long required so much more energy than he could maintain. He had lost everything. Even this small kindness threatened to break a crack in everything he had crafted so carefully, in his mind’s maze constructed to compartmentalize his sorrow. 

Shiral’s laughter was contagious. He did not want to smile, but he did. He did not want to pull her close, but he did. They were close together now, their breath fogging the cool air. He was still warm and muddled, but it was no longer so unpleasant. 

“Will you run from me again?” Her question was fair, and he answered it in the only way he could- with a soft meeting of lips that deepened into something more, eagerly returned. Together, they were warm enough that the snow melted in their hair, caught in their eyelashes for just a brief moment.


	11. Too Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world is too much with us; late and soon,  
> Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—  
> Little we see in Nature that is ours;  
> We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!  
> -"The World Is Too Much With Us"   
> William Wordsworth 
> 
> Abelas reaches Val Royeux, and dislikes what he sees there. He receives two very different visitors. I leave you with an awful cliff hanger.

Abelas hated Val Royeux on principle. 

It did not help that he traveled in a retinue with Orlesians and caravans of trade goods, making it impossible to speak to Shiral for more than a few minutes at a time. She was the Inquisitor, yet she had to settle the frequently offended nerves of these preening, posturing shems who showed only cruel eyes behind elaborate masks. That he would soon have to face a whole city of them was a daunting prospect, far beyond anything Abelas had experienced before. To say he was not prepared was an understatement; he longed for the quiet contemplation of the Temple, even in its loneliness. The birds there had been as colorful as the Orlesians, but far more polite. 

He expected more from the city that, as Shiral had told him, was thought by many to be the pinnacle of human civilization. The walls were stone, as they were anywhere else, as they had been in Skyhold. True, they were painted a variety of pleasing colors, but it did not hide their stiff, inorganic lines, the utter lack of originality in building materials. There was no harmony between nature and man; what trees and plants they had were contained in orderly rows, pruned so that their branches could not spread to the sky. An unexpected longing squeezed Abelas’ heart. It was a longing he could not put into words, but he remembered the way the trees went ever upward in the Temple, constrained by no roofs, tended by no gardners. These plants would never know that freedom, and though they had no thoughts, their stalks seemed to drop, their green lose some of its brilliance. 

“It is a useful place, if nothing else.” He had not noticed Shiral ride up. Their mounts stood side by side now, each horse contentedly gnawing at the bit, blissfully unaware of the tension that still existed between the riders. “You can buy anything here. It is the crossroads of Thedas. I have even found books of Dalish lore and treatises on our Gods. All dreadfully out of date or watered down, of course, but the fact that they existed…” Her voice trailed off and she shrugged. 

“Are the elves treated well here?” A kernel of hope that he would not face the same downtrodden faces as he had in Halamshiral opened in his heart. He could not face that again. 

“No.” That reply, so simple, confirmed his worst fears. Abelas felt his heart harden once more, and when he looked at Shiral, her face was stony and her eyes were cold as she looked over the city. “The biggest alienage in Orlais is here. You will see.” And if he did not want to see? He was given no choice in the matter.Having ridden this far, having made up his mind to help the plight of those locked up in shem places like this, he could not turn away. He had committed himself, and if his commitment did not run as deep as it had to Mythal, then it would come with time. It was all so fresh and so new to him. 

They rode through immaculate streets, beneath colorful banners that provided shade from the worst of the day’s heat. A cool breeze came from the docks, bringing with it the smell of exotic spices. “They perfume the air so you can’t smell the fish.” Shiral wrinkled her nose and winked at him as she rode ahead to keep company with the Orlesians, who seemed greatly livened now, chattering rapidly to each other in their strange, heavily accented tongue. They, at least, were happy to be here. 

They finally stopped before imposing metal gates, enclosing a wide courtyard whose white stones gleamed. The house that rose behind it was a monstrosity, large enough to fit several families and painted a pale pink that was no doubt meant to reflect the setting sun. It was instead a somewhat sickly color. The golden ornaments- doorknobs and bannisters- did not help the first impression. The place was gaudy, speaking of money far more than of taste. 

He dismounted easily, eyes still on the house that loomed before them. This was where they would stay? Abelas did not even notice the servants taking away the horses; he could not tear his eyes away from the mansion, from every little detail that made up its intimidating facade. Suddenly, he did not want to step inside, though he knew his thoughts were foolish. Even from here, however, this place represented all that was wrong with the world as he saw it now. This was pure shem. Part of his mind betrayed him, whispered that Arlathan’s crystal spires had been no less gaudy, that the elvhen had been just as guilty of mistaking gold leaf as proper covering for exterior features. His chest momentarily hurt as something tightened and then released its hold. 

A hand gripped his own, fingers intertwining and exerting a firm, comforting pressure. “It’s overwhelming, isn’t it? Josephine assures me that this man has contributed a great deal to the Inquisition financially, and the last we can do is spend a night beneath his roof. But it is a cold place.” Abelas could feel the others watching them, how their eyes stuck to the clasped hands. Uncomfortable, he stroked her palm once before pulling away, hoping that she would understand. The small half-smile on her face said that she did. 

A human in pale pink livery that matched the hue of the walls lead him inside and showed him to a room. It was small, but it was opulent beyond belief. If the size was meant to be a snub, it was one that went over his head entirely. 

Veined white marble was beneath his feet, running the length of the room and the corridor outside, its cold surface broken only by thick, lush rugs stained a deep red. Their pile was deep and plush. There were oil paintings on the wall, no doubt centuries old. Darkly dressed ancestors stared down at Abelas and judged him for being an elf where only humans should sleep, and he took some joy in that. There was a fireplace too, disproportionately large for the room, though no fire had yet been lit. The whole room was cold, in temperature and attitude. 

Without knocking on a door, a servant bustled in. Perhaps they had arrived early, for the man certainly seemed surprised to see Abelas. He was an elf, though stunted in growth, back slightly bent with lines on his face, though he did not seem old. His attitude went at once from busy and purposeful to cringing and fearful, and he did not look Abelas in the eyes. 

“My apologies, my lord. Just allow me to light the fire, and I will be out of your way. Please don’t tell anyone I did not knock.” The servant’s hands shook as he lit a fire in the grate, and the tips of his ears burned bright red. 

“Do you fear me so?” Even Abelas’ voice was deeper, seemed to carry more of a presence than the servant would ever have. His question was valid though. 

“You are a guest. You are important. And,” the servant’s eyes flickered up once to Abelas’ forehead, and then back to the floor, “you are Dalish. I have never seen your kind before.” Abelas wanted to protest, to say that he was not Dalish, was far from it, but the man scurried out before he had a chance to see, bowing all the while. Had he taken on too great a burden when he agreed to try and free the elves of Orlais from their masters? None of them would look him in the eye. They feared him as much as they feared the shems, perhaps more so. Why would they listen when, according to Shiral, the Dalish had done nothing for them before? And they did not know the difference between elvhen and a lowly Dalish elf; they saw only the vallaslin, and they feared the marking of the gods. A headache began to bloom somewhere between his eyes, spreading along Mythal’s branches until it threatened to overpower him. 

A knock on the door, assured and loud. Likely not a servant. Did he want to deal with whomever it was? “Come in.” Still rubbing his forehead, Abelas hastily dropped his hand from his brow as Shiral came in. She had removed the armor she wore on the road, attired instead in some sort of gown, likely Orlesian. It was the palest blue, edged with silver embroidery. The material was light and flowed around her, hinting at her form but never so lewd as to suggest it entirely. No, not Orlesian. The movement said it had some kind of Dalish influence. He could not take his eyes from it. From her. All thoughts of slaves and vallaslin temporarily fled his mind. 

“My dinner was cancelled. The merchant had some urgent business to attend to at the docs. I’ve wasted this dress on nothing.” She showed herself in, sat at the edge of his bed. His mind felt small, riveted along one track, almost insectile, and she was the flame. 

He sat down beside her, and their hands met again.


	12. Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was meant to be the fight scene, and it got rather out of hand. I'm sorry about that, but I promise some good old fashioned family violence in the next installment. 
> 
> The power of Armies is a visible thing,  
> Formal and circumscribed in time and space;  
> But who the limits of that power shall trace  
> Which a brave People into light can bring  
> Or hide, at will,—for freedom combating  
> By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase,  
> No eye can follow, to a fatal place  
> That power, that spirit, whether on the wing  
> Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind  
> Within its awful caves.—From year to year  
> Springs this indigenous produce far and near;  
> No craft this subtle element can bind,  
> Rising like water from the soil, to find  
> In every nook a lip that it may cheer.
> 
> The Power of Armies is a Visible Thing  
> By William Wordsworth

“I… I have a gift for you.” The air between them had grown awkward, the space between them on the bed at once miles apart and far too close. Abelas broke the silence first, his words surprising her. A gift? Shiral resisted the urge to stretch her fingers out and demand it like a child would. Instead, she tried to look calm and collected, not as stiff and awkward as the gown made her feel. Their hands came apart as Abelas rustled for something tied close to his chest, and she regretted the lapse in physical contact. 

From beneath his tunic he drew out something clumsily wrapped, clearly a weapon. It was long, and appeared to be pointed at both ends, though brown paper had been layered over it repeatedly so that no sharp edges jutted out. Shiral carefully unwrapped the twine, peeling back the layers of thick paper, proud that she didn’t tear into it. Whatever it was had a solid, heavy weight, though it seemed to balanced evenly toward the center of the parcel. The warmth of magic seeped through, making her hand tingle, and she worked that much faster to reveal what Abelas had gifted to her. 

“It is called Knightslayer.” From tears in the paper, a dull, blackened blade shone with red light in frantic arcs of magical energy. Her fingers stilled as she removed the last layer and she held it in her hand, feeling the weight and balance. It was pointed at both ends, though one side was far larger and weighed more. It was part dagger, part thorn, and would cut whoever handled it incorrectly. Shiral’s smile widened so that her face hurt. She typically used a bow, but combat could not always be at a distance, and something about this dagger spoke to her, whispering sweet words about their future adventures together. 

“Who named it that? What is its story?” It seemed old, a patina of black over it that could have come from lying forgotten for centuries. It must have been proud and bright once; now it was merely proud. 

“Her name was Alidda. She lived in one of the alienages, in what our people had called Halamshiral.” As always, the deep irony of the name stilled them both to silence. 

“She was arrested three centuries ago for murdering chevaliers. It was revealed that she had slain twelve of them in retaliation for what they called a graduation tradition- running down elves in cold blood. During the trial she escaped, bringing another twenty of the chevaliers to Falon’din’s mercy. The shems caught her, but rather than submit, she took her own life with the same dagger you hold, the same one she had used to end their miserable lives.” They shared a feral grin, Abelas with his teeth half bared. It was a fate terrible to contemplate, but it was work they were carrying on, in a way. 

“Perhaps it will have reason to taste their blood once again.” Shiral would not kill chevaliers in the streets, but should they challenge her, should they resist the will of the Inquisition… It was a prospect that thrilled her and Abelas the same. Abelas, at least, spared a moment to wonder when he had begin to thirst thus for blood, to feel a momentary shame that he had allowed himself to fall so far. Mythal had been a Goddess dedicated to protection and love, but also justice. Was this justice? He could all too easily justify it as that. This was justice for all the elves had suffered at the hands of the shem. This was justice for the promises broken throughout Orlais, for the blood that soaked the soil beneath the foundations of every stone building in Halamshiral. He let himself believe that, quelling the horror that fought to remind him to be patient, to not move so quickly. 

Shiral’s lips brushing his cheek jerked him back to the present, anchoring him firmly here, rather than letting him drift forever in the temple of his mind. Perhaps they would have drifted closer, had a firm knock sounded at the door, someone pressing down on the latch before even waiting to hear an answer. 

“Inquisitor, it’s urgent. My apologies for interrupting.” Was it simply his imagination, or did all Inquisition party members look similar? It could have been the armor. Either way, the man walked in, giving a short bow to them both. If he found the situation awkward, he hid his discomfort remarkably well. 

“The lord of the household went down to the docks approximately an hour ago, to conduct some urgent business. We’ve received word that his associates decided it would be more prudent to take him hostage and demand a rather large sum of gold, rather than negotiating. The rest of his family has kindly requested that we provide assistance, given that we are currently his guests.” And by kindly insisted, the scout made clear, the family had demanded the Inquisition’s help, as if they were a personal bodyguard. Never the less, Shiral nodded and stood, stepping away from him and the quiet moment they had shared. She was already pulling her hair from the elaborate braids it had been placed in. The scout nodded once and exited the room, no doubt preparing a small contingent to ride out into the night. 

“Wait. Are you truly going to save this human?” Abelas caught her elbow, held her back. He tried to ignore the annoyance on her face, the way she shook him off. “His servants fear him. He treats them no better than any other human in this city. Is this what we fight for now?” Abelas recalled the way the servant had shied away, like a dog too used to beatings. To save the hand that dealt the violence… It was nothing he could rest easily with. If they simply let him die, think of how many elven lives they may save. 

Shiral paused, no longer tearing away. She let him take her arm, slipped her own so that her hand held his, exerting a firm, dry pressure. 

“Politics. I didn’t sign up to be Inquisitor. I didn’t ask for any of this… mess, but I’ve grown to understand it a bit more. Do I truly want to save this lordling? No. I don’t care for him; I’m not blind to the way he treats our people.” Her expression dared Abelas to complain about using ‘our,’ and he said nothing. 

“But he would make a powerful ally, and to have him in our debt would be even better. He’s rich and has connections to several major families in Orlais. He sets fashions wherever he goes. If he were to publically treat his servants better, to announce that he finds elves equal to humans and that they should be treated as such, many lesser families would scramble and follow suit. And what then? They would discover that their servants are not stupid, that their servants deserve to be treated well. It would be faster than trying to enact change ourselves, through rebellion. Less lives would be lost.” Her fist tightened around the grip of her new dagger. Again it whispered to hear, the joys of parting Orlesian flesh and spilling their blood before they had a chance to kill more in the alienage. Had Abelas known? It was impossible to read his face. They both stared at each other for a long moment before Shiral gently extricated her hand from his. 

“Will you come with me? Or will you stay behind?” It was a question both knew the answer to. He would follow her, if only to see if she was right. He would follow her, if it meant saving the elves of Orlais.


End file.
